


Everything

by tricksterity



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Supernatural
Genre: Aziraphale's death caused Crowley to turn into an asshole, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 14:07:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/651279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tricksterity/pseuds/tricksterity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To the Winchesters, Aziraphale was just another angel who died.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything

Crowley used to be a very amiable bloke. In fact, he used to be downright pleasant to most of the people he met, human, demon and creature of Purgatory alike. He had to be likeable; he was King of the Crossroads. Crowley would smile, and he would laugh, and he would find pleasure in the simple things, and everybody knew it. Most denizens of Hell referred to him as strange, or said that he’d gone native. They also knew that he was especially friendly with a certain angel named Aziraphale, one with blonde curls and a cheeky, dimpled grin; who owned a bookstore in London that the demon frequented and who had a collection of terrible sweater-vests. Crowley’s guilty pleasure was the time he spent together with the being who became _his_ angel. His angel was kind, caring, loyal and just a wee bit prudish, but six thousand years of friendship makes one familiar with each other.

Aziraphale was always too curious for his own good, and was always too damn honest. Especially when it came to repaying his debts, and especially when said debt was to one of his favourite brothers, namely the huge-winged seraph named Castiel. Castiel and Aziraphale had been joined at the metaphorical hip since they both came into creation, and when Aziraphale was stationed on Earth, Castiel saved his life more than once. The blonde angel had never been able to pay off that debt, so he began by giving information to the Winchester brothers on a hunt of theirs. Winchesters, naturally distrusting of angels, made the meeting as short and precise as possible; Aziraphale obliged because he knew how much the Winchesters meant to Castiel, who was falling slowly but surely. 

Crowley secretly loved the honest streak in Aziraphale, the way the angel would find it difficult to lie or even twist his words around like most angels could, but sometimes it got out of hand. Crowley had never hated Aziraphale’s honesty more than he had when Aziraphale tried to pay off his debt to Castiel. The Winchesters were battling rogue angels, Castiel was unable to reach them and so Aziraphale had done the only thing he could – jumped in front of Sam and took the blow from Remiel, smiled gently as the light escaped from his eyes and mouth; still smiled as his Grace was scattered into a million protons and neutrons and the remnants of his wings burnt into the ground beneath him. The Winchesters were grateful, but within days they’d forgotten about the nameless angel who died for them. 

Crowley had felt it the moment Aziraphale’s light went out, the constant presence on Earth for over six millennia, and he felt it down into his core, where the fallen angel still resided, and it let out a soul-crushing, universe-collapsing, heart-breaking scream. Crowley was too late when he arrived at Aziraphale’s side, seeing his angel, his only companion, his love, his best friend, his partner in crime, his lover and his, _his, his_ , dead and gone forever. His laments had rippled for miles, the souls of humans and animals alike had gone completely quiet as they heard the pained yells of a broken man. The demon had stroked the angel’s cold face, pushed the curls back from his unseeing eyes and traced his jawline; he couldn’t bear to shut those eyes that he’d gazed into so many times, those eyes with the ever-present crinkles at the side, because if he shut those eyes they’d never sparkle at him again and Zira would be gone, gone, gone forever and Crowley couldn’t do that. Zira was good, he was kind and perfect and a bit of a romantic idiot at times, but there was no way that Aziraphale could be dead before Crowley, an angel could be dead before a demon, and this was _not right_. Crowley screamed to the heavens, cursing and pleading with his father in his home language, the fallen angel in him crying out for his dead brethren. Days passed in a stupor, minutes and hours and seconds blending together in one endless blur until the rational part of Crowley was forced to admit what he never wanted to know: Aziraphale was dead, and he wasn’t coming back. 

With a shaky hand, Crowley shut the angel’s eyes and wiped the saline that had fallen down, layered and encrusted on his face. He gently picked up the angel’s body (dead weight, head flopping back at an unnatural angle and it shouldn’t be doing that) and teleported them back to Aziraphale’s bookshop. He placed the empty vessel in the middle of the shop, and then lit it. As the second all-consuming fire raged in Fell’s Books, Crowley returned and placed a single purple heliotrope between the two burnt scorch marks.

Then, with a stony face and a mind set on revenge, Crowley shed his yellow eyed-vessel in search for a new one, planning every which way he could kill the Winchesters.

Because to them, Aziraphale was just another angel, but to Crowley, he was his everything.


End file.
